


(Why We Wear) Black

by thedenouement



Series: clexaweek2018 [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Clexa Week 2018, F/F, Famous, Reporter Clarke, Secret Relationship, Smut, actress lexa, golden globes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 06:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13852494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedenouement/pseuds/thedenouement
Summary: The "I'm a fashion reporter going live from the red carpet at the Golden Globes and you're the famous actress, nominee and avid activist for women's equality that the world doesn't know I'm dating, so I'm going to bite my tongue through this interview and resist the urge to tell you I love you and we can make out in the bathroom at the after the show," au, in which Lexa tells Clarke why she is wearing black and Clarke can't hide her pride for her award winning girlfriend.





	(Why We Wear) Black

Let it be known that at twenty-four-years-old, on her ninth carpet, Clarke Griffin still hadn’t mastered the art of heels. Not the kitten heels she had worn to her middle school dance, not the red soled Louboutin’s they had her in now – black suede with stilettos and silky ties at the ankles tied too tight upon leaving the house. And as she leant on a black-clad crew-member for balance, readjusting the thick width of material so that it didn’t dig into the skin of her ankle the reality of her ninth red carpet dawned on her.

It felt different today. The same cameras, the same crew, the same stylist tweaking locks of hair around her jawline – cutting under the layers of contour – but all swaying in the sombre undercurrent of needed change. 

And then of course, there was Lexa Woods – the actress come activist come most eligible nominee of the last two years, heading hard-hitting, critically acclaimed films with her chin high. She was eloquent and untouchable, speaking on topics of sexuality, gender equality and exploitation with as much easy grace as she walked a carpet or ran a scene – a reporter’s best dream and worst nightmare. 

“You ready?” 

Clarke hummed her distracted reply, wringing her studio branded microphone between her fingers. Their call time was early, they had been on the carpet since the morning when it felt like the decorations and set up were the ones left from last year, and now, halfway through the carpet, it was crawling with people. The aerial shots Clarke was sure they were getting would show them black-clad like ants, nominees and hosts stepping out of tinted-windowed Mercedes, flanked by plus-one’s and hovering managers. From their station – a platform overlooking the carpet up a short set of stairs – she could see invitees idling, activists on arms. It was something akin to pride that settled the roiling red-carpet nerves in her stomach. Then, it was someone stepping forwards to blend highlight into her cheekbones and pass her a tissue to blot her red lip that set it twisting again. Down the carpet, where Octavia was reporting from the entrance, scantily clad and wind-tossed from beside the limousine drop-off, a swarm of paparazzi photo-flashes and Clarke’s earpiece went live with the voices of presenters live from their studio headquarters. 

_ “– and what a tremendous show of support we’re seeing here on the carpet this evening. If we can just look closer at the glam-cam you’ll see the ‘Time’s Up’ pin designed by Reese Witherspoon and Academy Award nominated costume designer Arianne Phillips. Clarke, how’s it looking for you two down on the carpet?” _

“Pretty much as you say, Raven,” Clarke replied, slipping easily into her on-screen persona. It was seamless for her now – not so different from her real self, just a little less starstruck because the Hollywood glitz and glamour, the crushed velvet on her skin of the designer dress they had her in, was a fever dream for a journalism major from D.C. “I don’t think we’ve seen one person not wearing something black,” she made a show of examining the carpet at her back, “which really speaks to the climate here tonight. It says that there is a conversation that needs to be had, and we’re going to be the ones who have it and I think  _ that _ is what tonight is all about – the willingness to recognize.” 

_ “Absolutely,”  _ Raven agreed,  _ “and speaking of, I think we might cut down to Octavia where Lexa Woods looks like she’s arriving – a two time nominee, here for her role in ‘ _ Audrey’ _ , Indra Porter’s most recent film. It’s posed to make a clean sweep tonight, Octavia, what do you think?”  _

Octavia chatted and joked over their earpieces and Clarke zoned out, the camera off her she stepped back to watched the actress – tonight's coveted nominee – step elegenty from her car, easily ignoring the hand offering help with a quirk of her lips and a gentle shake of her head as to not rusle her immaculately styled hair – a coiffed up do, somehow soft but hair fastened with hairspray and the commanding hands of a celebrity hair stylist. Clarke wet her lips, chest fluttering. 

She had an interview or two during the time in which Lexa manoeuvred her way down the carpet. She asked the questions she was supposed to. She praised upcoming projects and speculated awards seasons winners, but then she was alone again and makeup artists were flapping as God herself ascended the red-clad staircase. 

Clarke hoped the layers of expensive foundation could cover the obvious flush in her cheek at the was Lexa maneuvered her dress, fingers digging delicate into the plush fabric. She lifted her chin and verdant eyes locked on hers. Clarke clocked the subtle quirk in her immaculate red lips and it was embarrassing, truly, the way the heat seeped down her chest, thankfully covered the by the high neckline of the dress the stylist had picked out for her. A simple long-sleeved gown that they had managed to work into the pre-Golden Globes rush – though Clarke didn't know how. 

She swallowed the dryness on her tongue as Lexa, accompanied by an exotic looking beauty, cutting jawline and sharp features positioned themselves with direction, and exchanged hugs and pre-interview pleasantries with the woman first, then Lexa, who left Clarke with an airy  _ ‘hello’  _ and the lingering scent of Chanel, then situating herself for the go-ahead. 

Clarke wrung the microphone between her hands. “We’re standing her now with Lexa Woods who’s a nominee tonight and who’s brought a special guest,” she gestured to Lexa’s plus one, then looked to the actress, “would you do the honours?”

“I would love to,” Lexa nodded graciously, “this is Anya Lees,” she put her hand on the woman’s shoulder who nodded back at her, and Clarke felt a pathetic spark of jealousy.  “She’s the executive director of three nonprofits funded by the Lees’ Alliance, which is a phenomenal organisation – established by her late mother – that fights the exploitation of particularly young girls and caters for the needs of LGBTQ+ youth, an issue close to my heart.” Clarke could practically hear the internet heave with that comment. The actress kept her private life so notoriously close to her chest, that anything she did say trended within minutes. “She’s a dear family friend,” the actress admitted and Clarke felt the stupid coil of possessiveness loosen, “we’ve practically grown up together. She’s an amazing person, woman and role model to me, especially, and I try to channel her in everything that I do. When the idea was first spearheaded of actresses bring activists onto the red carpet, my immediate thought was  _ ‘I have to do this with Anya.’” _

“And what do you have to say to that?” Clarke laughed tilting her microphone in Anya’s direction. 

With the spotlight taken off of her, Lexa sunk, chin dipping out of respect for the woman beside her speaking and Clarke traced the shadow it cut into the sharp line of her jawbone and the highlight across her cheeks. Lexa Woods had been a wallflower growing up, her Wikipedia page stated. Her foster parents – later adoptive – didn’t believe she would make it in the industry for the sheer fact that she didn’t speak the majority of the time and when she did, she was a serious thing with calculating eyes and hair to big to be taken seriously. Clarke could see that now. 

Puberty had been kind since her one-off stint as a child ator on  _ ‘Law And Order: SVU’.  _ And she read well – amazingly – in interviews; serious when necessary, witty when allowed. But she breathed a quiet sigh when the microphone left her that not many knew.

“Well as both of your know the question we’re asking here tonight isn’t who are you wearing but why you’re wearing,” Clarke continued when Anya had finished, “would you two mind telling us why you’re wearing black tonight?” 

“Solidarity.” Lexa replied, immediate and definite and pride swell within Clarke. “This movement that we’ve put together, it speaks across industries. It conveys the statement that we are not perfect, that Hollywood especially has innate flaws in its very foundation, that what we’re doing isn’t a solution to a very systematic, cultural problem. But that we see what is happening and are acknowledging it is not okay, which, I think, has the potential to be such a powerful device. And more so –” she stopped to swallow and Clarke found the passion endearing, the absolute certainty that seeped into the fabric of the brunette’s being, the eloquence, the hand gestures. “– working on  _ ‘Audrey’  _ with an exceptional crew – Harper McIntyre, the director Indra Porter – it created such a female environment and I was struck every day by how multifaceted we – as women – are.” She looked down as she worked references to her film into the discussion, like she knew she wasn’t there for the self-promotion and loathed it. Clarke watched her, microphone aloft, tongue through her teeth, praying the camera nor the actress would see her dopey look. “How we can be beautiful  _ and _ make such a difference in this world – a difference so many people aren’t aware of. I mean just look at Audrey. She was such a phenomenal woman, she danced for the Dutch Resistance during the War, she was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. I believe she’s so underappreciated for the  _ ‘secret’  _ things she did, I feel honoured to have the opportunity to bring them to light – and to be here tonight, to be part of something I believe has potential.” At her side, Anya nodded at the actress, stoic and bird-mouthed, but Clarke was nodding, agreeing with emphasis.

“Speaking of  _ ‘Audrey’ _ ,” she asked, “how was it working with Indra Porter?”

“Oh, it was wonderful,” Lexa smiled knowingly. “She’s an exceptional woman, she’s here tonight, I just saw her as I was coming in and I congratulated her. It really is a beautiful film she has put together.”

“I’m sure you helped,” Clarke reminded her, grinning.

“Oh,” Lexa tossed her head, then ducked her chin to bury her flattered smile. “I guess so,” she remarked and they shared a laugh. It was sweet, it sung in Clarke’s chest and when Lexa looked back up they met eyes briefly before Clarke received a prompt through her earpiece.

“Well, I’m so happy we got to speak to you two.” 

“Us too,” Lexa nodded.

“– and congratulations for the nomination – or should I say nominations?”

“Thank you so much.”

“Best of luck,” Clarke smiled. She watched the brunette’s lithe form as she navigated the staircase, shoulder-blades flexing under the material of her black gown, hand fisted in the skirt to keep it out of the way of her heels with soles the same red as the carpet. The blonde could see the subtle twitch of nerves under the collected exterior – for all the nominations she received last year, she gleaned no wins. But studios were looking at her this year to be their golden girl and it pressed on the shoulders of the twenty-three-year-old actress like the reporter couldn’t imagine. She winked when Lexa looked back and the brunette dipped her chin to smother her blush.

* * *

The show was long and Clarke only had eyes for Lexa.

Her seat was one on the outside of the ballroom – without a table, as per her status – but with Octavia on her left and Raven on her right, and when the host announced the nominees for best actress, she twisted her fingers together to quell the ache in the pit of her stomach. 

Lexa nodded graciously when the camera turned to her, pausing her clapping for her fellow nominees to give a bashful wave and a burgeoning smile. Her film had already won all but one of the categories it was nominated for – a sure awards season champion – but it didn’t stop the anticipation Clarke could feel in the pull of the room. The second to last announcement of the evening and like with anything Lexa Woods, people were holding their breaths. 

The presenter opened the envelope as the applause for the nominees died down, “and the award goes to,” a pause as they considered the name printed on the card, Clarke wet her lips and crossed her fingers. “Lexa Woods,  _ ‘Audrey’. _ ”

The breath the blonde let out was swallowed by the applause that rattled the ballroom, the all-encompassing kind as she watched Lexa smile on the screens, rising from her seat to hug the guests at her table. Her co-star – a swarthy actor with a back shirt and black suit who patted the brunette on the arm as she reached across the table to receive congratulations. Clarke had read a tabloid about the two of them lunching together a month and a half after filming wrapped, and another one about a feud between the two. It seemed the media couldn’t get anything right about Lexa Woods.

Music sung as she rounded the edge of the stage and wafted up the staircase, accepting the globe statuette with a bashful grin and a nod to the presenters who embraced her, leaving space for her at the microphone to give her acceptance speech – equal parts eloquent thanks and bashful acceptance of something she didn’t think she would receive. Clarke could see it in the way her fingers traversed the sharp corners of the bottom of the award, clasped to her chest like a badge of honour. “– I don’t believe I am that important in the great scheme of things,” she began to wind her speech to a close at the countdown on the teleprompter, “in fact, no,” she shook her head, “I’m  _ not _ important. But everyone who is brave enough to speak up, to show that women are multifaceted, as able physically mentally – culturally even – as men in a society that typically frowns upon it,  _ is _ , and I’m humbled to accept this on behalf of them,” she held the award aloft, “thank you.”

The audience broke into applause. Clarke smiled at her lap.

* * *

“You look gorgeous.”

Lexa – small of her back pressed to the sink, hair free of its chignon, contemplating the gold statuette in her hand with a nonchalant eye – looked up as Clarke entered. There was soft, red elation in the arch of her cheeks but moisture clinging to the lengths of her mascaraed lashes and a delicate set of her lips.  

The after-party and started an hour ago, in a separate ballroom in the Beverly Hilton, and the restroom off the lobby was deserted like they knew it would be. She quirked the left side of her lips into a precious smile and lifted  sculpted brow. 

“I thought I was going to have to fight you off me on the carpet tonight,” she quipped, placing her award on the vanity with a soft  _ ‘clunk’ _ .

“What can I say?” Clarke shrugged. “I don’t like it when I can’t claim what’s mine.”

Lexa laughed and it broke a dam, it had Clarke crossing the room in a fluid movement and pressing herself into Lexa’s chest, hooking her chin into her clavicle and winding arms around her neck and fingers in her styled hair, crushing the product and pins in her palm and feeling the pressure of her heart beat. “Congratulations, baby.” 

Lexa hid her grin in the crown of Clarke’s head – her safety net – heart singing, “thanks.” 

When Clarke pulled back, Lexa didn’t let go. They stood too close, entwined in each other. Just breathing while the actress smoothed out her nervous energy along the ridge of Clarke’s back, feeling the teeth of the zipper and the ridges of her spine, and Clarke let her. She loved her quiet, completive girl. She twisted the errant locks of Lexa’s hair between her fingers, shaping them around her jawline in the intimate gesture it warmed her chest to know she was allowed. “I knew you’d get it,” she confided like her best kept secret. 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“I did,” Clarke insisted. She lent forwards and kissed the corner of her mouth. “You’re the best. The best of the best,” she grinned cheekily, “at more than just acting, may I add.” 

“You may,” Lexa preened and Clarke fell into her chest laughing. “Come you,” she twisted their fingers together, palms hot against each other as she indicated back out to where the after-party was being held. “Your public awaits.”

When she felt resistance at the end of her hand, she frowned. 

“I don’t want my public,” Lexa said, breathless. 

“Then what do you want?”

The actress took a moment to faux-consider, and Clarke pretended she didn't know what she wanted. This dork who burnt pancakes in her underwear and missed the announcements of this years nominees because they drove out to Orange County with flat cellphones at her behest. Who are cereal for dinner, and last night’s leftovers for breakfast. A woman with complexities, dips and curves, a dimple in the small of her back and a birthmark only Clarke knew about. So far from the glamorous celebrity people thought luncheoned in Beverly Hills and wafted onto set in Chanel.  

“I want to get out of here,” Lexa decided. 

Clarke swung their hands between them, biting her bottom lip.

“I think we can do that.”

* * *

Their apartment was cold when they threw open the door, lips locked, having shown the poor driver more than he had thought he would see that night. The lights were left off after the rush from home earlier in the day, and TV was off, but the drapes were left open over the sprawling windows and LA glistened at the foot of the Hollywood Hills.

Lexa breathed for the first time day that. 

Clutches, dresses, heels were all discarded in a careless trail through the living room. A living silk river leading to the source; down the hall, where their sheets were cool against bare skin and Lexa shuddered when she came, putty in Clarke’s hands among eight-hundred thread-count sheets. 

The blonde pressed a kiss under the waistband of her panties and moved up Lexa’s body, soothing the aftershocks with gentle touches while Lexa, pulled bow-string tight, collapsed into the pillows, chest heaving and blinking the haze of pleasure. She drew Clarke in for a heated kiss, wet lips on lips, cold hands in hair.

“I should do that more often.”

Clarke cocked her head. “Win awards or orgasm?”

“Either or.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr if you want to ([@thealmostending](https://thealmostending.tumblr.com/)) otherwise thanks for reading! comments and kudos appreciated!


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